You told me I should write this letter to a thirty-year-old version of yourself. I’m not sure I know how to do that. What will we be like at thirty years old? Will you be the same, River? Will you still be adventurous and brave, unlike me? Will you still be a steady rock, a truthful voice, a boy filled with life? I guess not—I mean, you won’t be a boy anymore. You’re not a boy, even now. I can see you changing, even now—not changing, really, but growing. Growing upward, transforming to be even more…good.
That’s what you are to me, River. You’re good. You make things good. Now that you’re leaving, I’m starting to understand what you mean to me, all that you bring into my life. You’re my best friend, River, and I love you.
I’ll try to enjoy the time we have left tonight. And if nothing else, I’ll see you in twelve years.
—Drew
I fold the letter back along its creases and lay it down inside the box. I squeeze my eyes shut and am visualizing that evening twelve years ago, recalling that dread I felt when he told me he was leaving the next morning, remembering how the pen felt in my hand as I poured my heart out to him, but now I’m wishing I could have just given him the letter right then and there. My heart aches for those far away days, but the reality is those days are gone.
Now is the hardest part. I am sure of it this time. Nothing will be more difficult than unfolding the second letter in the wooden box and finally reading the words from my best friend who is gone, my husband who left me and the world too soon. The words from River when he was eighteen, young and healthy and perfect. The message River wanted me to receive on my thirtieth birthday, right here, in this very spot. I grip my stomach with one hand as the other retrieves that second letter. Seeing my name on the folded paper in his messy handwriting makes me feel weak. An image comes to my mind of River kneeling in the grass before Julian’s grave, and I know I have to do this. It’s time.
Drew Caldwell—
I’m in love with you.
There. I finally said it. Well, wrote it.
I think I’ve been in love with you ever since Mrs. Crawford sat us next together in fourth grade. It started out as a simple feeling, but as we’ve been together over the years, the feeling has grown into a fact, and it’s developed different layers and different colors, and I don’t think it will ever stop growing and evolving like that. The way I feel about you… I wish I could tell you now, but I haven’t figured out the right way. So, now, at thirty years old, you finally know.
Honestly, though, I hope you’ll know before you read this letter, and before we meet here after twelve years. Maybe all of my hints will finally become clear to you, or maybe I’ll finally get up the courage to tell you.
Twelve years from now. I know it sounds so far away to us right now, but it will come. When I think about everything you will accomplish and become in twelve years, I can’t help but smile, Drew. That’s the thing about you. You don’t believe in yourself enough. I know you have your worries and I know you think you need all that structure to keep them at bay, but that’s not true. The truth is that you’re only seeing yourself from a limited perspective, but I can see the big picture of who you are. I can see there is passion and potential inside you, waiting to get out.
We’re on different tracks right now, the two of us. But that’s okay. You need to start on the path you think is right, and if that means staying in Washington and going to college and nursing school, that’s okay. Me, on the other hand… It’s hard to explain why I feel the need to travel. It’s something to do with Julian, I know. And, yes, I wish you could come with me, Drew. I’m going to miss you like crazy. But that decision is yours, and I know that we’ll see each other again in time.
More than that, I believe we will get onto the same track in time, and that I will find the way to tell you that you’re not just my best friend, and everything will work out exactly how it’s meant to. This idea I had, writing each other letters and meeting here in twelve years… I guess it’s like an act of faith on my part, that I really believe what I just wrote: everything will work out.
I’m looking forward to August 30th, 2021. I love you, Drew Caldwell.
River
River.
I use my hands to wipe away the tears on my face, and they come back dirty. I look down at the rest of my body and see the stains on my clothes, the dirt on my feet and legs. I lay the letter down on my lap and place my hand on the empty spot of ground beside me.
You are supposed to be here.
River is supposed to be here, sitting right beside me, right underneath this tree. We were supposed to come here together. We were supposed to retrieve the box, the key, and read the letters together.
River was supposed to read that letter I wrote to him. That letter that, when I wrote it, nearly brought me to the brink of understanding. That letter that sparked an enlightenment within me, the closest I had come in nine years to realizing River was more than just my best friend.
River should have read that letter. He should be beside me at this tree, should have made it to thirty, should be able to see and hear and hold his son. River should be with me.
But he’s not, and I’ve had to learn to live with that. I am here, and he is not.
I read through the letter again, the one he wrote to me, and I let the tears continue streaming down my face. I look into the glowing sun and my eyes burn, and then, when all that’s left is a bright strip of light at the horizon, I return River’s letter back to the wooden box.
I’m just about to close the lid when I decide there’s one more thing I want to do. My hand lowers back into the box and grips one of the pens. The one with the bitemarks. My fingers rub against those indents, and then I take one of the letters from the box. On a blank space on the paper, I leave a message for River. I think about the postcards he had sent me during his travels, and I write, Wish you were with me.
Now, I think, I’m done. The hardest part is done. Now, I am placing my hand atop the lid, about to lower it, shut the box. But I stop.
I notice something else inside the box. It is just barely sticking out underneath the two letters. My vision must have been so blurry from the tears that I hadn’t noticed it before. I slip it out from underneath the pieces of stationery. I study it for a minute and realize what it is.
Another letter.
There is River’s handwriting again, my name written on the outside. Just like on the other letter I finished reading moments ago.
We only wrote one letter each that evening. So what is this?
I unfold along the creases. I notice that this paper doesn’t feel as rough as the others did. When I see the contents inside, a rush of emotions overcomes me.
TO DO
1. Come to the apple tree, even if I’m not here.
2. Read the letters, including this one.
3. Place your ring inside the box, along with all the letters, and store everything in the same spots.
4. Come back here once a year, read these letters, look at the emerald ring, look at the tree and the barn and the meadow, and know that I’m with you.